Chapter Text
The clock in London had long since slipped past midnight when Albert Moriarty stepped into Mycroft Holmes’s private chambers, the quiet hush of the city wrapping around him like a second coat.
Mycroft, seated with his usual composed posture, glanced up almost immediately. He didn’t need long to notice something was wrong.
“Albert,” he said, voice low, controlled—but edged with concern. “You’re late.”
Albert offered a faint smile, shrugging off his coat with practiced elegance. “Business ran longer than expected. You know how tedious such matters can be.”
But Mycroft’s gaze sharpened. Albert’s movements were slower than usual, his shoulders heavier, his complexion dull beneath the lamplight.
“You look unwell.”
“I’m fine,” Albert replied smoothly, crossing the room. “Surely you haven’t summoned me here to critique my appearance.”
Mycroft didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached for the wine already set out between them, pouring a glass and handing it over. Their fingers brushed—brief, deliberate. Familiar.
Albert took the glass, raising it slightly. “To discretion,” he murmured.
“To truth,” Mycroft countered, though he drank all the same.
They sat together in a rare silence, the kind that only existed between two people who trusted each other completely—and yet never fully. The fire crackled softly. Outside, the city breathed.
Albert took a sip of wine, then another. For a moment, he seemed himself again—calm, composed, untouchable.
Then he exhaled slowly.
“…It’s been a long week.”
Mycroft’s eyes flickered. “You don’t say that lightly.”
Albert let out a quiet huff of amusement, but it lacked its usual sharpness. He set the glass down, resting his elbow on the table.
“I suppose even I am allowed a moment of weakness.”
“That would be a first.”
Albert smirked faintly—but instead of replying, he lowered his head.
It hit the table with a dull thud.
Mycroft blinked.
“…Albert?”
No response.
Mycroft frowned, irritation flickering first. “If this is some form of theatrics, I assure you—”
He reached out, lightly shaking Albert’s shoulder.
“Albert.”
Nothing.
The irritation vanished.
Mycroft leaned forward, more forceful now, gripping him and shaking him again.
“Albert.”
Still nothing.
A cold, unfamiliar dread crept into his chest.
This was wrong.
Albert Moriarty was not a heavy sleeper. He was not careless. And his tolerance for alcohol was far too high for this to be the result of wine.
Mycroft’s voice sharpened, louder now. “Albert!”
No response.
That was enough.
In one swift motion, Mycroft stood and gathered Albert into his arms. The weight—or lack of it—struck him immediately.
Too light.
His jaw tightened.
Within minutes, a carriage was summoned. Mycroft climbed in, Albert cradled against him, the door slamming shut as the driver was ordered—no, commanded—to move.
The ride was agony.
Albert remained completely still, his head resting limply against Mycroft’s shoulder. Not even the movement of the carriage stirred him.
Mycroft adjusted his grip, his hand brushing against Albert’s forehead.
He froze.
Burning.
“Damn it…” he muttered under his breath, something rare and unguarded slipping through.
His composure, so carefully maintained in all things, was cracking.
“Stay with me,” he said quietly, almost imperceptibly, as if the words themselves might anchor Albert back. “That’s an order.”
But Albert did not move.
The carriage finally came to a halt before the Moriarty residence. Mycroft didn’t wait—he stepped out immediately, lifting Albert once more. Again, that unsettling lightness.
He approached the door and knocked sharply.
A servant opened it, confusion evident at the late hour—until their eyes fell on Albert.
“My Lord—!”
“There is no time,” Mycroft cut in, his tone leaving no room for question. “Fetch William, Louis, and a doctor. Immediately.” The servant didn’t hesitate.
Mycroft moved through the house as though he belonged there, carrying Albert to his bedroom. He laid him carefully on the bed, stepping back just enough to truly see him.
And what he saw unsettled him more than anything else that night.
Albert was pale—far too pale. Dark shadows clung beneath his eyes, his cheeks hollowed in a way Mycroft had not allowed himself to notice before.
For a fleeting, dangerous moment, a thought crossed his mind—
He looks like he’s dying.
Mycroft’s expression hardened instantly.
No.
Albert Moriarty was not fragile. He was not someone who simply… faded.
He pushed the thought away with force.
Footsteps thundered down the hall.
The door burst open.
William Moriarty entered first, his usually composed expression fractured with alarm, followed closely by Louis Moriarty, whose face had gone completely pale.
“Albert—!” Louis rushed to the bedside immediately.
William’s sharp gaze snapped to Mycroft. “What happened?”
“He lost consciousness,” Mycroft replied, his voice controlled but tight. “Without warning.”
Louis reached for Albert’s hand, his own trembling slightly. “His skin is so hot…”
William’s eyes narrowed, calculating rapidly—until another realization struck, and his gaze returned to Mycroft, colder now.
“…And you,” he said quietly. “Why are you here?”
The question hung in the air, heavy with implication.
For the first time, Mycroft hesitated.
Only for a second.
Then he straightened, his composure returning like armor. “I was the one with him when he collapsed,” he said. “If you wish to question me, do so after he’s been treated.”
William held his gaze for a long moment.
Then, reluctantly, he turned back to Albert.
“…Fine. That comes first.”
Louis gripped Albert’s hand tighter, his voice barely above a whisper. “Brother… please…”
Mycroft said nothing more.
He simply stood at the edge of the room, watching—waiting—his usual certainty replaced with something far more dangerous.
Fear.